Aiolos by Fabio Keiner

The grove lies silent in the pre-dawn mist, the faint traces of the passed night's rain clinging to the leaves. The sun is still a thought to come, a mere hint upon a far horizon hidden by the trees. A drop of water falls, its soft patter lost amongst the hush, as the faint rustle of unseen wings stirs the air. The grove breathes, alive in its quiet, waiting, not for the light, but for what that light might reveal, be it for good or ill, solace or something... darker.

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